We’re not lazy. We’re exhausted.
When I don’t want to write, my heart aches. My mind spins webs and collects irritating, aimless thoughts that deserve to escape onto pages. Crowded corners of an imagination I can’t corral, start to crack from the weight of ideas I can’t organize.
I have to write. It’s the only way to quiet the haunting howls of a belly that aches for closure.
I don’t express myself eloquently when I’m terrified. I can’t create and share confidently when the earth is warring against itself, as people convince themselves there are opposing sides of humanity.
We point at enemies, eager to destroy everybody who looks or worships differently than we do.
Salivating at the chance to demolish lands we’ve never been to- burn homes where children laugh and memories gather dust in attics just like ours.
What’s dangerous is the human tendency to separate and divide into categories. Shelved based on color, size, packaging, price.
This isn’t a grocery store. This is a kingdom of living, breathing, sobbing souls that want everybody else to take responsibility for the turmoil.
But nobody is righteous. Nobody is harmless. This war (and every war) is funded by hatred and an obsession with triumph. There are no winners. Only widows and widowers who wish they’d spent more time dancing in the daylight and less time budgeting, working, and arguing before their lives were destroyed.
I don’t want to think about self-improvement right now. I don’t want to stack habits or reward productivity with treats and trinkets.
I just want to stay alive.
I’m rewarding my every breath, every smile, every kind word exchanged with neighbors who are just as worried about the world as I am.
I’m not interested in striving. I’m only here to converse about sustainability. Who I am is who I am going to be until I get good and ready to proceed with my evolution.
I don’t want to do more- faster and better. I want to sit right here and watch in awe as the moon fades and the sun takes center stage. On cue. Every day.
I need to be reminded that miracles still happen. Every day.
No more tips about how to be more impressive. Please.
We get it.
People who skip lunch, eat in their cubicles, and sacrifice their sanity for higher stats and fatter paychecks have more money and “friends” than those of us who prioritize cuddling with puppies, long talks before bed, and conversations with senior neighbors who want to share stories about how to survive corruption, inflation, recessions…and wars.
I’m not going to produce more, work faster, or hustle until my heart stops beating and this body decays beneath a tombstone that reads-
Tash was too exhausted to enjoy her life. But she had a high credit score and a nice house.
Kamil wrote the most remarkable call to (in)action that freed me from a list of to do’s that were taunting me, calling me lazy every time I’d tuck them back into a drawer of obligations.
She denounced rumors that burnout isn’t real (it is!) and encouraged aspiring writers to honor their limitations. I read this beautiful, gentle piece again and again.
She discussed burnout with patient assurance and grace. Every word rang out and reminded me to choose myself, to choose rest over relevance, every time.
Juliane Bergmann’s essay on intentional moments and savoring goodness liberated me and eased a part of me that often wonders if I’m doing enough. She’s a writer who positions words so perfectly, tears of adoration well up in my eyes as I read sentences that could’ve easily been ripped out of my diary.
I realized, while reading vulnerable testimonies on Medium, that I’m not alone. I’m not the only person who wants to experience more and do less. Savor and linger more. Force less.
Be wary of the societal obsession with faster and better.
Those two words hang on a banner right above the entrance to hell. Not the hell mentioned in the Bible. Imagine a realm of misery here on Earth. Where everybody is too sick, too overworked, too paranoid, and too tired to realize-
The hustle is a trap.
